by Paul Cude
'Here it comes,' thought Peter. And sure enough, it did.
One of Manson's huge black scaly wings sliced through the air at speed. Peter desperately willed his body to move. Responding slower than normal because of the cold and fatigue, he jumped back and rolled sideways, feeling the air from the movement of the deadly wing just above his head. Gingerly, he straightened up, knowing he'd just burnt the skin off both his knees with his last ditch evasive exploits on the icy, sand encrusted ground.
A giant roar accompanied by a splutter of flame spewed forth from Manson's mouth as he stamped his feet in frustration, much like a petulant child not getting his own way, more than a little upset that Peter had avoided his well timed charge. With a prehistoric snarl buried into his face, Manson opened his mouth again, this time to much greater effect, having let rip with the biggest and hottest stream of flame Peter had ever seen. Caught off guard, the young dragon flung himself to the floor, trying to ignore the pain as he rolled over and over on the hard surface. Shooting pain down his arm, across his back and into his hand told him that his shoulder had been caught on the outer edges of the flame and badly burned. Scrambling along the ground as if completing an army assault course, he knew that ignoring the pain and surviving as long as possible was quite literally a matter of life and death. Rising up to a kneeling position to catch his breath and take stock of his wounds, he noticed the hired help that had been loading the vans had decided enough was enough. Despite what looked like strong threats from Theobald and Casey, the men had all run off towards the van that Peter had been trapped in, the one by the gate that remained open, and were now in the process of attempting to drive off at breakneck speed.
Manson, clearly distracted, had stopped heaving flame at Peter, the fleeing van more of a priority. Peter knew that he should use this fleeting opportunity to try and escape, but not only could he not see how, but some morbid fascination had taken over, forcing him to see what fate awaited the humans who, up until sixty seconds ago, had been part of Manson's force. Kneeling on one knee, forcing air back into his lungs, he watched powerlessly what he assumed would be the last few seconds of the human conspirators’ lives.
Manson hated humans. Not hated them a bit, oh no... he really, really, really hated them. Hated them with every cell in his superior body. According to him, they stood for everything bad in this rotten and wrong world.
'Bentwhistle can sweat a bit more, while I take care of these lying, cheating, spineless... cowards,' he thought, assessing the entire situation all at once. Closing his eyes that were easily the size of beach balls, he rolled his huge head back as he concentrated on the open gate that the van was now heading for. Power and darkness surging through his body, he willed the gate to close and stay closed. Like a shot... it did! The massive gate slammed shut, mystically welded in place, as the driver of the approaching van slammed its brakes on, surprised to see the exit suddenly cut off. Confusion and panic erupted inside the van as they all argued about their next course of action.
Opening his eyes in a slow, sure, calculating way, Manson gave one flap of his gigantic wings, taking flight immediately, skimming low across the synthetic pitch on a collision course with the breakaway van that was now reversing away from the steadfast gate. Theobald and Casey watched as their 'master' raced by, a mixture of pride and obedience cut into their faces. The driver slammed the steering wheel round, shooting the van through one hundred and eighty degrees, looking for any other exit. But the sight that greeted him and the others crammed into the front of the van through the steamed up window was nothing other than gruesome, causing him to step on the breaks, bringing the vehicle to a sudden halt. Watching, Peter could just make out four petrified humans behind the windscreen, all frozen with fear like rabbits in a headlight, for which he really couldn't blame them. Manson was closing in, flying just above the pitch, frosty sand scattering through the air in his wake. One of the humans in the middle of the cab overcame his fear briefly, and tried to climb over his stunned friends to get out. He was too late.
Manson's entire being ploughed straight into the van, shredding it instantly. The noise of metal, flesh and bones all breaking, blocked out the sound of the fireworks that were going off overhead. Then came the blast. The whole van exploded in a shower of tiny, red hot, metal fragments, leaving a smoking and smouldering wreck that had melted a huge hole in the synthetic pitch, right in front of the locked gate. From out of the fire trudged Manson, using his wings to brush off tiny slivers of flame and red hot fragments from his chest and legs, all the while looking incredibly pleased with himself. If Peter hadn't recognised the trouble he'd been in before, he did now, particularly having witnessed the casual way in which Manson had just taken human lives. He knew that unless a miracle presented itself, he'd very likely be heading the same way.
From his position back near the fence, Peter surveyed the scene in an attempt to see if there was anything at all that might help him in his current predicament. The smouldering wreck of the van lay along one side of the pitch, blocking off the sealed gate. At one end, roughly in the centre, stood Theobald and Casey, taking in everything that had happened, looking more than a little shaky. Right in the middle of the pitch, strewn across the frozen ground, was another giant harness like the one in the van Peter had been trapped in. Amazingly, this one looked even bigger, as it lay flat on the cold, icy surface, with the large metallic nets either side. One of the nets had been pulled open, and some of the contents of the two vans which surrounded it had been piled in. Wooden boxes and pallets with smaller packages on were spread out amongst the vans, and had clearly been in the middle of being unloaded when the humans had tried to make a run for it.
'What on earth is in the boxes, and why are the contents being loaded into the nets attached to the giant harness?' Peter wondered.
Manson, still ever so slightly on fire, motioned to Theobald and Casey to join him. They did.
"Start loading all the cargo into the harness, ready for departure," he ordered, his breath forming a massive white cloud in the chilly night air.
Theobald and Casey headed quickly towards the centre of the pitch, but not before they'd stopped to bow to their 'master'. Manson, knowing that his harness was once again being loaded up, turned his attention back to Bentwhistle.
Watching everything at a distance, it seemed to Peter that whatever was being loaded up in the harness must be extremely important to Manson. Briefly he wondered if he'd ever find out what it was.
Turning his huge, prehistoric body towards Peter, Manson's head swayed from side to side almost as if enquiring what the young dragon was up to.
Standing up from his kneeling position, a wave of pain from the burns on his knees ran up Peter’s legs, nearly forcing him to scream out. But not quite. Managing to ignore it with only a small grimace, he found that despite the cold, he was actually starting to warm up.
'It must be something to do with the rush of adrenaline, and being near Manson's scorching flame that he let out,' he thought. 'I'm still a long way off being able to turn back into a dragon, or use any of my key abilities to raise the alarm though.'
Manson couldn't help but notice Peter's interest in the harness and its contents.
"Still not clever enough to understand what's going... little dragon?" he sneered as he plodded over.
Peter ignored the jibe, knowing full well the giant, menacing dragon was trying to bait him. Keeping his temper in order to seize that one miracle opportunity should it arise, was his priority.
"Not even a little interested... little dragon?" taunted Manson.
'Obviously he needs to feel superior by instilling fear in others and flaunting his power by bragging about his plan. Well, if he wants to brag, then maybe I should give him the chance..
"The dragon Council and I know all about your plan," lied Peter, hoping his bluff would at least keep Manson a little off balance.
"Haaa haaaaaaa haaaaaaaaaaaaaa! Then why aren't they here to stop me eh? You know nothing
about what's going on here. Even now, your feeble little mind isn't smart enough to put the pieces of the puzzle together. You look at the boxes over there," Manson pointed to the harness that was slowly being filled by Theobald and Casey, "and you have absolutely no idea of their contents."
Peter crossed his arms in front of his chest and put on his most determined expression, which under the circumstances (standing in the frozen night air in just shorts and a hooded top) seemed utterly ridiculous, but it was all he could think to do. If he could somehow raise some sort of doubt in Manson, then he just might get to live just that little bit longer.
The giant black dragon took a couple of massive strides towards Peter, shaking the ground and raking the ice on the surface of the pitch with his sharp talons as he did so.
"I know everything you're thinking... insignificant little dragon. You're so predictable, with your schemes and plans of how to get out of all of this in one piece."
A quivering shudder ran through Peter. Manson didn't appear to be buying any of it. Using all his strength and courage, he maintained the defiant expression, hoping that his opponent might give something else away.
"But since you're going to die anyway, I might as well put you out of your misery, before I put you out of your misery." Manson clapped his huge wings together in front of him, before blowing out a short jet of flame on to them. Peter wished with all his heart to feel the warmth contained within the flame. Manson shot him a knowing look, fully aware that Peter was freezing and longing for the heat that he so brazenly showed off.
Stamping around in a semicircle some thirty or so feet away, every now and then Manson blew out a jet of flame to ward off the cold. As he did so, he turned towards Peter, looking like some kind of prehistoric predator teasing its prey.
"You see, my... associates and I have a rather different long term view of how the planet should be governed. While we've had little choice but to bide our time in the past, we now find ourselves with a real opportunity to bring our plans to fruition, helped in no small part by some resources from... Cropptech," Manson quipped, pointing towards the boxes and pallets scattered about.
Alarm bells started going off in Peter's head.
'Oh my God,' he thought, 'he's stealing the laminium!'
A big, smug, evil grin crossed Manson's scaly face, as his bloodshot eyes focused intently on Peter.
"At last you've managed to work it out. Good for you," he laughed. "Where in the world would we as a group find enough laminium for our goals? Where in the world would we find enough laminium, unguarded and free for taking? Ha ha ha! Here of course. With only a couple of pathetic dragons watching over things, one hopelessly inadequate, the other... fresh out of the nursery ring, with absolutely no idea how things work in the real world." Manson shook his head as he laughed. "Easier than taking charcoal from a hatchling," he goaded.
Images of what Manson and his cohorts might do with that amount of laminium flashed through Peter's mind as he stood in the cold, trying desperately hard to look confident. His imagination pictured a world ruled ruthlessly by dragons. Humans decimated by cruelty and sport for the ruling class. Other species wiped out on a whim, by neglect and misuse.
'Everything would revert to how the world was hundreds of thousands of years ago,' he thought, terrified at the prospect.
It was the first time that day that his death, a very realistic possibility, was put into perspective. If he didn't stop Manson getting away with all the laminium, then the world might never be the same again. Everything he loved, his friends, Cropptech, the dragon world, Gee Tee, the nursery ring... hockey, it would all be destroyed. There and then he vowed to himself that he would not let Manson leave with the precious metal, even if it meant sacrificing his own life. In fact, he would gladly give his own life to stop the evil monster's terrifying plot right now. In Peter's mind, things had changed. It wasn't so much: how could he survive and even get away? It was more: how could he use his own life to take Manson's and thwart him in the process? A loud growling voice brought him back to the present, more determined than ever.
"So you see it was never about Garrett or Cropptech. They were just a means to an end so that we could liberate the laminium," barked Manson loudly, now flicking out small streams of flame to keep himself warm, much to Peter's consternation.
Finally understanding the overall scheme of things, Peter nodded. He'd never even come close to suspecting what it was all about, having always been too concerned with the people involved, that is Garrett and Hiscock, when in fact he should have been paying attention to the bigger picture, in particular the... laminium. That was, after all, the primary reason he'd been put there by dragon society and should have been his top priority, even if it had meant that the humans paid for it with their lives. If he'd thought his cold, numb legs would have felt it, he would have kicked himself.
'Stupid, stupid, stupid,' he thought as he gazed across at Manson's infuriating smile.
As the mammoth black dragon gazed over its shoulder to see how Theobald and Casey were getting on with loading up the harness, Peter couldn't resist a look and followed Manson's example. The two bullies had, from what Peter could see, loaded nearly all of the contents into the nets attached to the enormous harness. Each metallic net was so full that the harness itself now stood a good four metres off the ground, supported only by the full nets either side of it. Empty pallets and wooden boxes lay dispersed around both vehicles, both of which had been left with their rear doors open, revealing total emptiness inside.
Only then did Peter really get it.
'That's how he plans to escape,' he thought, looking over at the giant harness. 'It would fit him like a glove, and if he can reproduce the masking effect that's encasing the pitch while he's flying, he'll get away scot free.'
Manson's interest returned to Peter, now that he was sure the harness was loaded and ready to go.
"I'm afraid it's nearly time for me to depart," he gloated. "And unfortunately that means the end of the road for you, although I can't really say I'm that sorry. You've blundered about and got in the way enough to cause serious disruptions. At least after your death I'll have the satisfaction of knowing all the workers at Cropptech will think you died a traitor, having attempted to poison Al Garrett, only to be stopped at the last minute by... ME! Think of the irony of it. Even your friends will have their doubts about you."
Peter's temper started to rise. He knew only too well that he should ignore Manson's taunting, but believing that everyone would think badly of him stung him more than he thought possible. Surprisingly, he stepped forward, a rather stupid thing to do under the circumstances.
"You wouldn't know true friendship if it jumped up and bit you on the tail," he spat furiously. "No matter what the situation or circumstances, my friends would never think badly of me. They'd know that whatever I did, however odd it looked, I did it with the best of intentions. They'd have faith that I would do the right thing, no matter what the situation. You probably don't have a real friend in the entire world," he raved, letting his temper get the better of him. "The only thing I feel for you is... PITY! What's it like to be alone, and afraid? I'll take comfort in the fact that when the dragon Council catch up with you, and they will, you'll die all alone, with absolutely nobody to mourn you."
Peter evidently hadn't noticed Manson getting angrier as his tirade went on. The gigantic matt black dragon had a look of murder in his eyes as his huge head swayed from side to side in a deranged sort of fashion.
Rant over, Peter took a breath, only then realising quite how much he'd provoked the dark scaled beast. The two, a bedraggled looking human, barely dressed, and a menacingly colossal, black-as-the-night-sky dragon stood on the synthetic pitch, staring at each other as the fireworks raged overhead, with a crowd numbering in their hundreds standing off to one side, blissfully unaware of what was happening. Hate and rage inside Peter threatened to gobble him up. He wanted to hurt Manson... badly, but had no idea how to do it. More than anythi
ng, he wanted to kill him. For Mark Hiscock, whom Manson had killed. For Al Garrett and the staff at Cropptech, all of whom had been misled, none of whom were safe. And for the human accomplices that Manson had murdered right in front of him only minutes ago. He wanted to do if for Fisher, who had been slaughtered by Theobald and Casey for not wanting to take part in Manson's scheme any longer. His hatred for Fisher was immense because of his part in the bullying that had gone on for decades during his time in the nursery ring, but nobody, human or dragon, deserved to die like that. Most of all, he wanted to do it for... himself! Manson had made his life a misery for the last seven months and he was planning to change the world beyond recognition. For that, Peter decided, he deserved to die.
Manson had rolled his head away from Peter. It looked innocent enough, but was in fact designed to lure his prey into a false sense of security. In an instant, he struck. The one thing it wasn't, was subtle. Manson launched himself like a jet plane towards Peter. The young dragon used up all his luck in moving off to one side as fast as he could, and then at the moment the dark dragon's hooked talons came screeching towards him, he dived head first with all the speed he could muster into a forward roll, carrying all his momentum as far as he could. Scrambling to his feet, he was grateful that his tactics had worked, albeit at a cost. He'd got out of the way of Manson, and now found himself some thirty or so feet away from the unhinged dragon, who was now over by the fence, with him off to one side. The cost of this had become apparent when he'd turned to inspect his right shoulder, which was throbbing slightly from the impact of the forward roll, or so he thought. It turned out he was mistaken slightly. Manson's razor sharp talons had caught his shoulder on the way past, slicing into the flesh from shoulder to bicep, with the torn skin hanging off, like meat on a butcher's hook.
Flashing Peter one of his deranged smiles, Manson stood confidently baring his talons and teeth, not far enough away on the synthetic pitch. Lifting his right arm into the air, just enough for the messy flap of skin to sit back down on his arm, he closed his eyes for a split second, and, using all his concentration, channelled what little magic he had available into the wound in the hope that it would heal. Under normal circumstances, an injury like this would be fully healed in about an hour. Unfortunately his circumstances now were far from normal. He figured the best he could hope for was for the skin to knit together slightly, and for some of the pain to be relieved. That was assuming he didn't have to move or receive any other injuries in the immediate future.
